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New Houston and Other Stories

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New Houston and Other Stories University of New Orleans ScholarWorks@UNO University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations Dissertations and Theses Fall 12-17-2011 New Houston and Other Stories Danielle J. Gilyot University of New Orleans, [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td Part of the Creative Writing Commons Recommended Citation Gilyot, Danielle J., "New Houston and Other Stories" (2011). University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations. 1381. https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td/1381 This Thesis is protected by copyright and/or related rights. It has been brought to you by ScholarWorks@UNO with permission from the rights-holder(s). You are free to use this Thesis in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights- holder(s) directly, unless additional rights are indicated by a Creative Commons license in the record and/or on the work itself. This Thesis has been accepted for inclusion in University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected]. New Houston and Other Stories A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of New Orleans in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Film, Theatre, and Communication Arts Creative Writing by Danielle Gilyot B.A. University of Miami, 2003 December 2011 Copyright Statement: @2011, Danielle Gilyot ii Acknowledgements: First, I would like to thank God and my mama and my father. You encouraged me even when you didn't fully understand what it was you were encouraging. You supported me back when all of this was just a wonderful pipe dream. Thank you to my very best friend, Ashley, for convincing me to apply to this program. I'm sure she knew before I did that this would be one of the best decisions I could have ever made in my life. To my writing professors: Rick, Joanna, Joseph, Randy Bates, John Gery, Miles Harvey—I thank you for the love you've shown me and my writing, especially the tough love. To you, Amanda Boyden, I thank you for never accepting what I thought was my best because you knew better. For always pushing me to find my inner-greatness. I haven't found it yet, but I'm getting there. Just know that you are the voice in my head, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I thank anyone who has critiqued a story, came to a Gold Room reading, said a prayer for me, gave me a hug, shared a drink, a laugh, or a word of comfort with me. Your presence in my life has been a blessing. To my fellow writers, thank you for the privilege of basking in your talents. I wish that you never cease to be pleasantly surprised and humbled when someone wants to read your words. Lastly, to Hurricane Katrina, I thank you for screwing up my life. You gave me a story to tell. iii Table of Contents "States of Matter"....................................................................................................................................... 1 DENIAL Namesake.............................................................................................................................6 Soul Food...........................................................................................................................29 BARGAINING Models................................................................................................................................45 New Houston .....................................................................................................................67 ACCEPTANCE Heavy Lifting.....................................................................................................................81 Vita ..............................................................................................................................................................104 iv States of Matter "In this bright future you can't forget your past/So dry your tears I say." Bob Marley, "No Woman, No Cry" New Orleans—a hot mess of a city. Literally. Humidity and trash. Local sex and tourist piss. Cops pay more attention to flashing tits and speeding tickets. Politicians build mansions with money set aside for education. Tourist industry no more than glorified indentured servitude. Here, we celebrate death with street parties. Dancing on the same streets over washed- out blood. Here, we reach out and touch our dead. Sometimes, they touch us back. New Orleans never appreciates you while you're around but misses you fiercely after you're gone. The crazy ass girlfriend that begs you to come back after she put you out. Against your better judgment, you go back to her. Bags in hand, you hope she gets it together this time. She doesn't. Why do you put up with it? Who the hell knows? This is what I know: there's no in between with this place. Like a drug. You'll spend your life chasing its high, and when the party's over, you'll crash. 1 New Orleans gets under your skin, and I've been slitting my wrists to get it out of me ever since. That Monday morning began very still. Quiet. Power had gone out and left me at the mercy of August heat. Cracks of sunlight peeked in between the boarded windows in Mama's bedroom. Brought a little peace with it, too. I hadn't slept since Saturday night. Rifle pressed against my chest, I listened for the enemy. Looters this time. Didn't matter to me if they looked like Charlie or Ray-Ray from around the corner. If they tried to come up in here, they got shot. Felt like Vietnam, but I was more prepared this time. I wanted to call Mama to let her know I was doing fine, but my cell phone stopped working. Sent Katrina a text message. Hope it went through. My two favorite girls. Mama fattened me up while my daughter checked my sugar every chance she got. Both of them watched me like a hawk, but they had nothing to worry about. Sober for twenty-four years, five months, six days and counting. Thank my two favorite girls and God for that. Water began seeping into the bedroom from under the door. No matter. I had wanted to rip up the carpet and put down wooden floors anyway. Wind began to pick up outside. Ray-Ray wasn't coming no time soon, so I let the weather put me into that good, deep sleep. Pop's old radio blasted something about water coming over the levees. I'd be fine. This wasn’t Betsy. I jumped out of sleep. Something licked my hand. Dark brown water surrounded the bed. Half-way up the nightstand. Crash. 2 Glass shattered. Wind and rain beat up the boards I had used to protect the house. Water only knee-high at this point. I grabbed the radio, my rifle, and my phone. Started for the kitchen. Crash. I put the radio on the nightstand and cocked my rifle. Someone had busted through the back door. I had been trained for this, and yet I shook so hard. Butt of my rifle clicked against my watch. Get it together, Private Hampton Junior. Sergeant Perkins would drag out the Junior whenever he singled me out for fucking up. By the time I left Vietnam, I had fucked so much, everyone called me Hampton Junior. Sergeant Perkins and John Hampton, Sr. The only two men I've ever wanted to be like in life. Failed miserably at both. High-stepping through water, I made it into the foyer. No Charlie. No Ray-Ray. Just me and this torn-up house that had a tree planted in the living room. I called myself being smart with insomnia and packed up all the food that wouldn't spoil in one bag and the bottled water in another. Put the bags in the sink and covered it with a flat piece of wood. Pop stayed for hurricanes. He taught me well. Batteries, flash-lights, an old radio, Vienna Sausage, and some crackers. Gallon jugs of water that I had to share with my younger brother and sister. Mama made beds out of blankets, and we all camped out in the middle of house. Mama told stories. She fell off the step-ladder while seven months pregnant with Grace because Pop took too long to hang the wallpaper in Grace's baby room. Patrick had been named Patricia up until the time he was born. Pop swore he was a girl. Patricia was our great- grandmother's name, and so Pop had to settle for Grace Patricia when she finally came. 3 *** In elementary school, I learned that water takes the shape of whatever container holds it. Tuesday morning. Another quiet morning. I grabbed Katrina's baby picture from the mantle as I set up shop in the attic last night. Pumped up the air mattress, but sleep? Yeah, right. Not with the critters running around up here. Air sat on top of me; even though, I kept the hatch open thinking that something would circulate. I had been waiting for the water to go down so I could get back into the house and leave. Water probably got into the truck, but once those brakes aired out, I'd be good to go. I've always appreciated noise. In Vietnam, I discovered that silence was the great deceiver. The hypersensitivity to sound I developed over there saved my life. This wasn't like Vietnam, though. I was better prepared this time. That water came some fast. Never in my life have I seen flood water reach the ceiling. Sent Katrina another text. Told her that I loved her. I pulled out an old, rusted ax from the box of tools I kept in the attic. Pop never taught me this. 4 DENIAL 5 Namesake Killer Katrina. They whispered it behind her back at the office. She pretended not to hear them. Insensitive asses. The number two reason why she hated Houston. Number one had to be the traffic. Katrina Marie Hampton rubbed her eyes as she sat in the computer room Thursday morning.
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